


Meeting at Might

by Anonymous



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-05
Updated: 2009-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's a rakish pirate, he's a captain with a stick up his arse; together, they fight crime! (Not actually a comedy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting at Might

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a pinch-hit for [tenacitydrader](http://tenacitydrader.livejournal.com) in the 2006 [Pirates of the Caribbean Secret Santa](http://community.livejournal.com/potcsecretsanta) exchange.

> The grey sea and the long black land;  
> And the yellow half-moon large and low;  
> And the startled little waves that leap  
> In fiery ringlets from their sleep,  
> As I gain the cove with pushing prow,  
> And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.  
> Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;  
> Three miles to cross till a farm appears;  
> A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch  
> And blue spurt of a lighted match,  
> And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,  
> Than the two hearts beating each to each!  
> —Robert Browning

The slosh of the oars was unavoidable, in the shallower water, but still I grimaced, gritting my teeth every time the silence of the night was marred. The _Lucasta_ floated in the cove, drawn up as far as she could be without actually breaching the sand, and the lamps that ordinarily would have hung in the rigging had long since been doused.

An owl called out, somewhere deep in the forest that crowded the beach and cast forbidding shadows over the sand. I shuddered.

Although I knew nothing of agriculture, I knew that the moon hanging low in the sky was a harvest-moon, that the chill in the air was not merely the sea leeching all warmth from the air. Winter never came close in these latitudes, but it had cast its considering gaze this way for the last few weeks.

I had never been able to see the man in the moon with his bundle of sticks, but when it waxed full and glowed golden as it was to-night, I had always obscurely feared the great, blank eye in the sky, wondering when the lid would droop. Wondering what it was watching. What it would see that I could not.

Thankfully my plans had borne no confidantes, and no companion's speech broke the eerie night-time silence. I could see no figures flitting over the deck of the _Lucasta_, and wondered briefly if the stories that she needed only her captain to sail could be true. But it was of no consequence at the moment, and I turned my attention to the waves the little rowboat caused, the agitation of the silvery fishes that glimmered in the shallows. The moonlight gilded the tips of the waves that lapped the shore, and as I swung myself overboard, my very skin seemed to glow as if I sat by a fireside without warmth. Small thrills of heat and frissons of cold made my fingers nimble on the rope.

I was no longer used to hauling a boat onto shore, but managed well enough, and felt a small surge of pride as she cleaved the soft sand. The tide was drawing back, and I was certain I would be well on my way by the time the sea bit at the land again (heaven help me if I were not long gone by sunrise, but then, plans and plots made in secret were never well-constructed, and I could only hope that I would be as fortunate this time as I had before), but I made certain to beach her as high as I could.

To leave the little rowboat, oars lashed on neatly, alone, gave rise to a queer feeling of tenderness, and I hesitated, as I turned to walk through the soft ground. It was strange, for the memory had not risen up in years, but I found myself recalling the child I had been, who had left to serve his king at the tender age of twelve. I was becoming a moralist in my old age, I thought bitterly, for certainly I had not been aware of my youth then; but now I could not, would not, believe that a lad with barely a dozen summers to his credit could freely commit himself to spend his life engaged in war. It had been an icy cold night when my three-day coach journey had begun, the latest point in a series of cold snaps and warm thaws that left Derbyshire's lanes coated with frozen mud and black ice.

The world was no less treacherous than those roads, I reminded myself as I began the long trek down the beach. My presence here to-night was proof of that.

If I had not known why the secrecy of this night was so important—had not, indeed, proposed it myself—I would have cursed the walk down the shoreline to the marker left in the sand for me. There was a warm breeze blowing off the waves, and the scent of the sea never failed to wake phantasy in me, but a mile in sand was harder going than the same distance would have been on a good road. And there was excitement and hope prickling under my skin, along with a healthy dose of worry (had anyone seen me leave? could anyone suspect why I had left if my absence was discovered? what if I were to be needed immediately?), which lent me urgency as I sped down the shoreline, moving over the hard-packed sand at the tidemark.

My footsteps would lead anyone following me straight to where I turned my course due north, following the stars as any self-respecting sailor could, never glancing at the compass I had tucked into my pocket. There had been a pile of stones there, but several satisfying splashes later, only the scuffed marks of my stride were left.

When I reached the solid earth of plowed fields, I could not help but break into a run, pleased to be free of the soft sand. I was sure to walk along the top of a furrow, not wishing to trample the honest farmsman's crop, and was soon reduced to counting the cadence of my steps to suffer the monotony of the night-walk.

It was a good deal further before the farmhouse appeared in the gloom, and the relief that I had not misunderstood the cryptic instructions was a warm flood in my throat. I paused, to regulate my breathing, and to tamp down on the rising anticipation that quickened my heartbeat.

Tonight's rendez-vous would not be the last one, I knew—not unless something utterly unforeseen happened—but it was still illicit and dangerous, and brought unfamiliar emotions to the fore of my thoughts.

The farmer was long abed, with his wife, and I did not disturb their well-earned rest. Instead, I skirted the small patch of flowers, carefully tended, that backed the house, and went to the chicken coop only a few yards away. This had been a prosperous place, once, and the door to the coop was the full height of a man. I rattled the knob gently, and when that provoked no response, rapped my fist against the wood. A light flared, and my eyes were dazzled when the door opened.

My mind, however, was not, and I slipped through the crack as quickly as I could, wincing as the board beneath my feet creaked. It could not be helped, and I could not help wishing that this assignation could occur elsewhere, but I voiced no complaint. Instead, I blinked, trying to see past the glare that seemed as bright as noontime sun, although it was merely a single lantern.

The hens cooed sleepily, and I stood rigidly, afraid they would wake and panic. But they settled back to their rest quickly, and out of the darkness began to swim distinct shapes. There were crates upended in the aisle between the nests, and I brushed some straw off one before seating myself.

"So," Sparrow whispered, and I could not have stopped the smile that rose to my lips at the sound of his voice, the surge of delight that shook my bones, the creep of fear that gave the night a knife-sharp edge. "We'll get the bastard son of a bitch yet," he whispered, and I nodded, feeling the surge of emotion in his breast as clearly as if it were in mine. Perhaps because it was.

"Aye," I said, in a voice no louder than his. "So we will."


End file.
